


As Above, So Below

by catherine_r_beanstalk, Songspinner



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different Powers, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Canon-Typical Violence, Cat/Human Hybrids, F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff and Angst, Giants, Kaiju, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Realm Hopping, Rough Sex, Self-Destruction, Sex, Transformation, fashionably horny, horny but classy about it, tastefully horny, the self-destruction is of course Sylvain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25512769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherine_r_beanstalk/pseuds/catherine_r_beanstalk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songspinner/pseuds/Songspinner
Summary: Once upon a time, the world was divided in two.In the World Below, mysterious blight storms and inexplicable monsters rain down from the sky, spelling a slow doom for Faerghus, Leicester, and lands beyond. Human beastslayers take up arms to protect their own, but even they can't stave off ruin forever.In the World Above, skybeasts invade from beyond reality above the cloud sea that separates the arcologies of the air from the earth beneath. Powerful giants and animalistic ogres work together to fight them off, while the dominant culture of Adrestia crushes any human who manages to climb a beanstalk into the sky.Until one day, the story turned out a little differently...
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Lysithea von Ordelia, Catherine/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Catherine/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Catherine/Shamir Nevrand, Claude von Riegan/Hubert von Vestra, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Kudos: 11





	1. An Undiscovered First

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, catherine_r_beanstalk had a cool idea and went to SS and our third author with "what if 3H but with beanstalks, giants, catwives, and kaiju?" And then we made that happen. :)
> 
> We're posting this first chapter just in time for FE3H's first anniversary. We hope you enjoy it!

The ominous tolling of the Marquis' doorbell resonates through the castle's torchlit hallways. Hubert sighs and straightens from his work. Who could possibly be making a house call at this hour? Very few people willingly make the trek to the von Vestra estate, and those who do rarely arrive with good tidings. Steeling himself for bad news, he takes a lantern in one hand and glides down the corridors like a lurking shadow. Hubert pulls the enormous wrought-iron door open and looms ominously over the person outside.

“Duke Riegan,” he dryly greets the travel-weary man standing on his doorstep. “What a pleasant surprise.” 

"If I didn't know any better," says Claude, smirking up into the Marquis' attempt at intimidation, "I'd think you weren't happy to see me, Hubert."

"Whatever would give you that idea." Hubert's dry tone remains as he steps aside to allow Claude entry.

"But you should be, because I've brought you a gift. Also, when are you going to stop calling me 'Duke Riegan'?"

"Any time you'd like to abdicate your title, I will immediately cease referring to you with respect. Now. Show me what you've brought. And wipe your feet."

"I'm getting mixed messages, here." Claude slips past the Marquis into the foyer and drags his boots across a waiting rug. He holds a small burlap satchel out for Hubert to take. "If you insist on being stuffy about my title, is it really fair for you to order me around?"

"Are you or are you not in my house?" Hubert takes the parcel from Claude and immediately inspects it. A handful of strangely colored dried mushrooms clusters at the bottom of the little bag. He tucks it into a hidden pocket in his coat, satisfied. 

"You got me there." Claude wanders farther in and stretches, having been on wyvernback most of the day. "I hope you've prepared something for dinner, because I'm starving."

Hubert’s eyebrow twitches ever-so-slightly. Of course Claude would arrive on his doorstep in the dead of night and immediately demand a meal. "I'm afraid I was not planning to entertain a guest. I could prepare something, if you would like."

"What a kind offer! I'll take you up on it. Just, uh...don't use those mushrooms for cooking unless you really are trying to murder me this time.” Claude flashes him a saucy wink and heads into the sitting room. He pulls his cloak free of his shoulders and drapes it haphazardly over the back of a chair, which he then plops down into.

"Not this time." Hubert smirks, just a little. 

"Is there coffee, at least?"

"You should know better to ask whether or not I have coffee. There are also tea biscuits with raspberry jam. They are Linhardt's, so it doesn't matter to me if you eat them."

"Ah, Linhardt. What a generous soul, leaving these biscuits out specifically for me." Claude grins and pulls one of the round biscuits from its sleeve. He prepares a cup of coffee - black with sugar - and sips at it. 

"Do enjoy them." Hubert takes a seat for a moment. "I want to know why you're here, but if you'd like a meal you'll need to join me in the kitchen."

"I will, but sitting down is delightful,” Claude sighs, “so it can wait a few minutes. I was up in the mountains yesterday, and I saw some odd movements in the clouds. It looked like it could be a disturbance in the cloud sea."

"I see. So you're here to use the observatory." Hubert smiles a little. The corners of his mouth curl upwards in a manner reminiscent of a snake. "I should have guessed. Tell me more about this disturbance and why you think it's worth interrupting my time."

"It didn't look like just your average blight storm." Claude leans forward, weariness forgotten as he warms to the topic. "It covered a wider area than usual, for one thing, and it had a strange ripple effect to it. As if something truly massive, or maybe an awful lot of smaller somethings, had touched down violently up there."

This sparks a flicker of interest across Hubert's face. "What do you suppose such a thing means?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. That's why I'm here." Claude takes another sip and warms his hands with the mug. "What I'm _hoping_ it means is that a passage is opening."

Hubert does not like the sound of that at all, nor the implications of Claude’s curiosity. "And if a passage _does_ open in the clouds, how do you intend to access it? Fly into it?"

"That's the plan. Why, do you have a better idea?"

“I do not,” Hubert replies sharply with some wisp of hope that this might deter Claude from whatever impulsive scheme he is inevitably going to propose, “short of acquiring the mythical beanstalk."

"Good luck with that." Claude's head tilts. "What about you, Hubert? Would you ascend to the World Above, if you had the chance?"

Hubert mulls the thought over. Legends hold that whatever exists above the cloud layer is full of enormous dangers: animals the size of monsters, titanic plants that hunger for human flesh, and terrible giants who grind human bones to make their bread. Still, the thought of discovering the unknown tantalizes him with its mystery. "If I had a guaranteed return, yes."

"Nothing's guaranteed in this life." Claude grins. "But I could promise to try my best to take you there and bring you back in one piece. _Maybe_ two."

"How reassuring." Hubert drawls. "But I wouldn't roll the dice on flying into an opening the clouds and taking my chances on the cloud sea, or being devoured by some sort of flying beast."

"Your loss. But consider this: survival is one of my greatest talents. Your chances with me are a lot higher than without me."

Hubert raises his eyebrows slightly. "Are you asking me to join you, Duke Riegan."

Claude shrugs carelessly, as if the question of crossing over between worlds was not a life-and-death proposition. "I'm offering. Don't you want to see what's up there? Besides, having a mage around just seems like a wise choice."

"My concerns are more with the movement of the heavens and predicting the patterns of storms, and the strange results that come of them.” Hubert balls his gloved hands into fists on the arms of the chair. “I'm afraid I don't quite have the same fascination with crossing over that you do."

"Suit yourself! But if I find any weird sky mushrooms, I'm not saving any for you." Claude gives him another teasing wink. 

"I'm sure you'll have more important discoveries to return to us rather than mushrooms the size of a man." Hubert waves his insistence away with a dismissive gesture. 

"Importance is in the eye of the beholder." Claude finishes off his coffee and stands. "And now I'm ready for that meal. Tea biscuits can only tide a man over so far."

In the kitchen, Hubert crafts a meal out of food he had remaining from his own dinner. He never needed to do domestic tasks like this in his youth, but since inheriting the empty estate, Hubert learned to fend for himself. He plates the dish artfully and serves it, more proud of reheated leftovers than he should be. Claude enjoys it, at least, and something about that makes Hubert very happy. 

Once the meal is finished, he leads Claude back up the familiar spiral staircase that rises into his familial home's spire-observatory. Hubert throws open the doors with more ceremony than is strictly necessary and strides across the tile floor patterned with a mosaic that maps to the night sky. He places his hand on a crank and invests it with some of his magic, causing the great machinery of the observatory to shudder to life. The whole structure turns to face the sky, shutters pulling away from the arched windows and the great lens extending upwards. 

Hubert turns back to Claude and gestures to it. "Use it at your leisure."

No matter how many times Claude sees this place, it never fails to enchant him. So far he's managed to find good excuses for Hubert to let him up here, but one of these days he's going to run out of them and end up asking to use it just because. He can't help feeling like that would be a victory for Hubert, somehow. Well, Claude hates losing, so he'll keep coming up with excuses for as long as he can. Because he loves this observatory and, frankly, envies Hubert with a passion.

"You have my thanks." Claude climbs nimbly up to the platform where the machine's controls await him and gets to work, cross-referencing with his maps and carefully tracking the movements of clouds and stars to pinpoint the disturbance he saw. It's slow, painstaking work, but he enjoys it.

"Allow me to assist with the lens' calibrations." Hubert knows that Claude will keep coming back, and he will continue to pretend that he doesn't enjoy having the other man around. He wonders idly if Claude can see through it, but secretly hopes that he does. Bit by bit, Hubert follows a celestial map and calls out degrees of adjustment so Claude can focus the machine on a particular part of the sky.

They fall into the comfortable rhythm of two people who have worked together often and do so smoothly. Eventually, Claude is rewarded with a clear and close-up view of the area where he found the disturbance...his eyes widen. "Whoa...it _is_ open! And something's coming through. Right now."  He vaults down from the platform without another word, not even bothering with the ladder, and rushes to the door.

"And where exactly do you think you're going?" The sound of heavy raindrops on the windows punctuate Hubert’s question. 

Claude spares a moment to glance over his shoulder. "If you have to ask, you don't know me very well."

Hubert holds his hand up as if that will stop Claude, somehow. "I'm not asking for my own benefit. I'm asking for yours. Stop and think a moment."

"Sorry, Hubert, no time for that." Claude dashes out the door, but instead of taking the spiral staircase down, he lunges for the tall, curved window. No balcony or sill waits outside.

"Claude. Stop this immediately." Hubert moves towards him - there's absolutely no way he's going to let him throw himself out a window a hundred feet in the air. "It's unlike you to act in such a brash manner."

"This isn't brash, it's opportunistic." Claude pushes the window open, letting in the rain. He pulls a small, silver whistle from his jacket's inner pocket. "And hey, it got you to call me by my name! I'll take that bonus."

Hubert heaves a long, exasperated sigh. "That is unimportant. Can you not hear the heaviness of the rain? This is the edge of a blight storm. You're going to risk your own health and safety as well as that of your mount for what, an opportunity you might not come back from? I implore you to reconsider! If the clouds opened this once, they will open again."

Claude glances back at him in some surprise. "...you really don't want me to go." It's half statement and half question.

"No! I do not!” Hubert cries and takes another step forward. “I want you to hold onto your life with some regard, so that we might study what we learned, and perhaps use the information to predict when this might happen again."

Claude studies Hubert's face. " _If_ it happens again." He wrestles with the feeling that his opportunity is slipping through his fingers, warring with Hubert's logic in his mind. He frowns, and then sighs. "But you're right. Going unprepared is a fool's errand. And I may be foolish, but I'm not quite _that_ foolish.”

Hubert’s expression softens a little. "Very good. Now come back here, and let us discuss what you witnessed. You said something came through. Did you see what it was?"

Claude can't help feeling touched by Hubert's concern, as he pulls the window shut again and tucks his whistle away, then heads back to where the other man waits. He knew Hubert had a softer side--or at least, a soft spot for _him_ \--but this is the first time he's really seen it. Not that he plans to draw attention to it, of course. "Definitely a skybeast, and it looked more like it was falling than flying."

"I will fetch a pen and ink, and you can attempt to draw what you saw. Please do me the favor of marking down the precise coordinates and time we saw this happen." Hubert turns sharply on his heel and strides back into the observatory. "With that in mind, we can use the sky to map where it might have fallen."

"You got it. Although, fair warning, I'm no artist."

Hubert smiles in his snakelike way. "I won't judge."

“How sweet of you!” Claude chuckles. “But more importantly, my sad excuse for an illustration might not tell you anything useful."

"What it will do," Hubert calls from the other side of the room, as he gathers a quill, ink, and spare paper into his arms, "Is satisfy some curiosity I have, and perhaps prove some personal theories."

"Oh?” Claude raises his eyebrows with interest. “I assume they're not theories about the stick figures I'll draw for scale."

A dry chuckle. "No, they are not. They are about the morphological forms of these creatures."

"I'll be very interested to hear those." Claude follows Hubert back into the room.

Hubert pulls up a small table and a pair of chairs next to the great lens and sets the paper and ink down between them.  "I think I've seen one of these skybeasts fly low enough to the cloud layer to be seen,” he says, and takes a seat himself.

"Ooh, do tell." Claude’s eyes gleam, but he can listen and make an attempt at drawing at the same time. He dips the quill and starts to sketch: a massive, scaly thing with too many limbs and spiked protrusions jutting out of its back. In the end, it isn't stick figures he uses for scale, but the mountain itself.

"You've surely heard General Goneril's tall tales about encountering giant men and women, and other enormous, human-like beasts in his tours of duty above, yes?" Hubert asks as he watches Claude sketch. "And we are all aware that something like a great sea made of clouds separates whatever must be up there, from us below."

Claude nods along as he tries to make the drawing look at least passably accurate. "I've had many conversations with Holst, and most of them ended with him shooing me away. Pretty rude, if you ask me."

Hubert makes a humming sound in the back of his throat and frowns. "It sounds like he has something to hide. You can be quite persistent, but it doesn't call for such rudeness."

"I take that as a compliment." Claude finishes up the drawing as best he can, then jots down the coordinates and the time at the top of the page and turns the paper around to slide over to Hubert. "And the Gonerils _definitely_ have something to hide."

Hubert studies the drawing for a long time. "You've undersold your talents." A wry smile.

"Ha! Maybe I should take up art as a new hobby, then." 

"I have reason to believe, from certain observations that Linhardt has made, that these creatures and theoretical giant men are two very different things - assuming the latter exists at all. I believe anything that crashes to earth is always a beast, such as what you have illustrated. I have no concrete proof of giant men, but I believe I have seen more than one of these beasts, all of which do not have a human shape."

Claude considers this theory. "I do sometimes wonder whether the rumors about giant people are just wishful thinking. But I'd _like_ to believe there are people up there as well as beasts."

Hubert drums his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "Linhardt observed a specific pattern in the rotation of the cloud sea. This appears to be something unrelated to the appearances of anomalies such as the one you just witnessed, and the subsequent appearances of blight storms. He proposed that there's something moving deliberately up there - which at first I dismissed as pure fantasy, but now I suspect I may be wrong. "

Claude twirls the quill between his fingers, equally thoughtful. "What makes you suspect that?"

"The beast you saw fall. The odds of it intentionally falling seem slim, don't you think?"

"Sure,” Claude agrees. “Are you suggesting that someone or something deliberately disposed of it?"

"Yes. I'm suggesting something intentionally killed it.” He traces his finger over the illustration. “And not in a 'feud between beasts' way. This doesn't seem like a scrap for prey or territory."

"Well, as soon as we figure out where it fell, we can go find out,” Claude says. 

"That is a simple matter of mathematics." Hubert smiles a bit wider. "If you would hand me that terrestrial map, please."

Claude slides the map over and then folds his arms on the table and leans forward to watch. "So, you really think the people who live up there are gigantic?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea,” Hubert replies. “It sounds like a flight of fancy to me. But even if there aren't cloud giants, there's something up there, moving. Maybe a flying battleship."

Claude laughs. "So giant people are a flight of fancy but flying battleships are fair game?"

Hubert rolls his eyes. "I believe in the power of technology and magic."

"So do I. But you've seen how massive those skybeasts are; you don't think it might take someone bigger than you or me to take one down?"

"Not if they have an enormous battle station,” Hubert replies. “And the Gonerils profess to know the secrets of slaying huge beasts, and every one of them barely comes to my shoulder."

Claude snorts. "I believe it. Have you ever annoyed Hilda enough to get shoved? I wouldn't want to face her for real anywhere near arm's reach, that's for sure."

"No," Hubert responds, the dry tone back. "I try only to treat young Lady Goneril with respect."

"Ah, we're gonna be back to Duke Riegan now, too, aren't we." Claude sighs. 

"Perhaps,” Hubert’s sardonic expression returns. “We'll see how the rest of evening goes. Will you be staying the night?"

“If that's an offer, then yes, definitely. And if it isn't, I just might anyway."

"Consider it an offer." Hubert makes a few markings on the map and turns it back to face Claude. "That's my closest estimate."

Claude studies the map to commit it to memory, and nods. "Got it. You're coming along, right?"

Hubert sighs heavily. "Yes, if you're offering."

"Consider it an offer." Claude grins and leans back in his chair. "So that's the plan for tomorrow. What's your plan for the rest of tonight?"

"I intended to map this storm, then perhaps read until I got tired and then retire to bed,” Hubert says, also relaxing into the back of the chair, “but now I have a guest. Do you have a proposal in mind?"

"Hmm...up for a game or two of chess?" Claude asks. 

"I'd be delighted."

* * *

The aftermath of the blight storm drapes the world in dark, clinging, viscous liquid; smothers plants and poisons animals. Crops wilt and droop beneath the murky sky and animals unable to find shelter undergo slow and painful transformations into monstrous beasts. There are too many problems to solve for just two people, so neither Claude nor Hubert halts their ride. Claude's enthusiasm for this journey isn't dampened by what they see as they pass through the region where the blight storm took its toll last night, but he's focused on the goal and the possibilities that occupy his mind. Solving each individual person's problem won't solve it for everyone. He's got to think bigger.

His usual idle chatter is absent as they ride up the mountain path that leads to the fallen skybeast, but after a time he says, "So, what else have you been working on lately besides storm tracking? Anything interesting?"

Hubert rides, fully covered, wrapped in a black cloak that shrouds his face, with elbow-length black leather gloves. It seems he has taken every precaution to avoid getting blighted rainwater or mud on his skin. "Watching the patterns in the sky. These patterns mean something. Linhardt is obsessed with it. I've been trying to help him, but I'm not as taken with it."

“No?" The corners of Claude's mouth curl up a bit. "What exactly _are_ you taken with, then? Other than coffee."

"Hm." Hubert shoots Claude a sidelong look. "My study of magic."

Claude nods. "Fair enough. I've thought about studying magic a bit myself, but Teach tells me I have the innate magical talent of a log." He chuckles, seeming unperturbed by this.

"Natural talent only carries one so far," Hubert says a bit stiffly, as if he's offended at the idea.

"Oh, I'm sure. And I'd have no qualms about taking the time to study and practice, if I weren't wandering from place to place all the time.” Claude shrugs. “Someday, maybe."

"I could offer a few lessons, while we're on the road." Hubert tries to sound casual, but earnestness clings to every word. "Assuming you were interested in learning."

_ Now that’s interesting,  _ Claude thinks. He hasn't known Hubert to so freely offer things before, especially not his time.  _ Maybe he's just bored. _ Claude smiles. "I'd like that. You know me--I'm always interested in learning, magic or otherwise."

Hubert nods. "Next time we stop to rest, we can review a few basics. You'll have to tell me what you've been shown so far."

“It's a deal. And don't worry--I'll understand if you want to use the opportunity to show off," Claude teases. Hubert is nothing if not dramatic, after all.

A smirk curls under the shadow of Hubert's hood. "Perhaps I shall."

"Anything you're interested in learning in exchange?” Claude asks with a sly smile. “I need my chance to show off too, you know."

"How could I deny you." The smirk remains. "Perhaps His Grace could show me the secrets of statesmanship."

"Now, that's just unfair. How am I supposed to show you that out here in the middle of nowhere? Negotiate a treaty between swamp frogs?" Claude’s smile widens into a grin.

"If you can get them to sit still, or better yet, speak, I'll be nothing but impressed." Hubert replies with the utmost seriousness.

"Well, then I'll have to give it my best shot. I wouldn't want to disappoint." 

"Perhaps we could instead discuss the art of getting people to do what you want, without threats," Hubert suggests, with just the hint of a smile.

Claude laughs. "You're really shooting for the moon here, aren't you? Though that's awfully specific. I thought you liked threatening people."

"There's an art to it." Hubert sniffs. "But there are cases where a more delicate approach is needed. And an equal number of people upon whom threats fail to work."

Claude hums. "Such as?"

"Institutions often don't take kindly to threats." 

“Oh, I agree with you, I just wondered if there was some specific case you're hoping to address,” Claude says. “Talking in generalities doesn't make for a great lesson."

"I would like to work into the good graces of a few people with valuable information, and I'm afraid that I only know how to be the knife." Hubert sighs.

"I see. Well, I'm always up for a challenge, although if what you need is just to build a few bridges, I could accompany you. Be the carrot to your knife, as it were."

An eyebrow raises on the visible sliver of Hubert’s face. “Perhaps I will take you up on such an offer, but I learn nothing from letting you do this for me."

"True enough! A man after my own heart. Consider it a lesson exchange, then."

At the sound of that, Hubert does, perhaps, hope he is a man after Claude's heart. "Yes. Consider it so. Where to next?"

“It's not much farther to the next checkpoint along this road, maybe another half hour.” Claude gestures up the road. “I figure we can rest there for a little while before we start our ascent for what should be the last leg."

"Do you think we should hire a guide?" Hubert asks.

Claude’s eyes widen. "A guide? Ha, I've never hired a guide in my life. What good is a journey without a little trial and error?"

“Ah, are you familiar with the territory then, and the internal anatomy of a skybeast?" Hubert responds, pointedly. 

Claude shrugs. "The territory, more or less--I was up here before I came to your place. The skybeast? Not at all, and that's what's so exciting about this." His eyes twinkle.

Hubert sighs a little. "If you insist."

"That's what I like about you, Hubert. You're such a good sport."

True to his estimate, about half an hour later they come to the checkpoint. It’s little more than a perpetual campsite with piles of firewood lining a clearing just off the beaten path and a stone watchtower where the local knights keep a lookout for savage beasts and other threats that harass travelers. Claude wastes no time in gathering kindling and starting a fire; the hour grows late and soon, he knows, the air will get chilly.

Hubert takes a moment to survey the area. He strides around the perimeter like a shadow and scans the area for immediate threats. Satisfied, he returns to Claude. "Do you consider this place safe?"

“Nope," Claude replies cheerfully. "I figured we'd have to keep our own watch, whether the tower's occupied tonight or not."

Hubert’s gaze drifts back to the perimeter. "I suppose we'll have to sleep in shifts."

"That's the plan. Now you can live out your fantasy of looming over someone ominously while they sleep." Claude finishes stoking the fire and it blazes merrily. He sits close to it.

Hubert doesn't dignify this with a response. "Which of us would you prefer to sleep first?"

"You go ahead, I'm a bit of a night owl anyway,” Claude says.

"I also am a creature of the night, but I'll do my best to rest first." 

"Ah, of course. Didn't mean to intrude on your _spooky reputation_ as a creature of the night," Claude intones in a dramatic voice, before he goes on without missing a beat.  “I hope you're not planning to go to sleep before my first magic lesson, though."

Hubert smiles. “Of course not."

"Good. Honestly, pretend I know nothing at all about magic--start from the beginning. Teach isn't really a step-by-step sort."

Hubert takes a seat and pulls the hood down. "I think the first step is understanding the movement of energy through the world. This is the part that most identify as natural talent, but it is only the first step."

"Ah yes, this is the part where I failed to impress them the first time,” Claude admits. “Which...is the first part, which is why I never learned anything else, heh."

"So you simply couldn't do it by instinct and they stopped teaching?" Hubert raises an eyebrow.

"Well, I don't want you to get the wrong idea about them." Claude's grin is somehow sheepish and cheeky at the same time. "I wasn't exactly a model student about it, either."

"You? Impossible.” Hubert keeps the amusement off his face. “Some find it easier to sense the flow of energy through the breath and others find it easier to reach through meditative focus."

"I doubt meditation is going to do it for me, so let's try it the other way."

"Either way, this is something that takes time. Begin by taking as full a breath as you can,” Hubert instructs. “Hold it. Feel your heartbeat, then let it out. Do this over and over until you start to feel the air itself moving."

Claude's game to try, so he does as instructed, patient enough to go on for a few minutes before he sighs and shakes his head. "I don't even think I know what you mean by 'feel the air moving'--isn't that just...wind?"

"No, it's more intense than that. You will know when it comes to you, which will not be tonight."

"Ah, _gusts_ of wind. Got it."

"I'm beginning to understand the professor's frustration," Hubert says.

Claude chuckles. "I'm joking! Though maybe I should keep it up for a while, the look on your face is priceless."

Hubert decides he's not responding to that ribbing, either. "Continue the practice and tell me when you think you've felt it. I imagine it will take two weeks if you're diligent."

“You'll be the first to know,” Claude says.

Hubert nods. "I don't expect the return lesson just now."

“Good, because all that intense breathing made me lightheaded, sheesh." Claude leans back to lounge with his pack as a pillow, tucking his hands behind his head and looking up at the sky. "I wonder what would happen if the cloud sea dissipated. You think we'd be able to see the stars all the time, all at once?"

"We'd see what's flying up there at all times. But yes, perhaps we'd always be able to see the stars and the moon, as well," Hubert muses.

"Can you imagine how bright it would be at night?" Claude gets a faraway look in his eye. "If there really are people up there, you think they get that kind of view?"

"If they don't have clouds of their own, yes." 

Claude turns that wistful look toward Hubert. "And you wonder why I want to cross over so badly."

"I never truly wondered,” Hubert says, softness creeping into his voice. “Your curiosity cannot be contained."

"Guilty as charged." Of course, Claude has _other_ reasons to want to get to the World Above too, but no need to tell Hubert about those. “You should get some sleep. We have a long day ahead.”

Hubert nods and curls his long body into his traveling cloak to sleep. “Goodnight, Claude.”

"Sweet dreams, Hubert."


	2. Storytime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid turns her gaze away from General Holst's intense eye contact and stares at her hands placed upon the wood-grain surface of the table. "Well, Your Grace, I was desperate, so I'm afraid the story does not have an exciting beginning." 
> 
> Holst leans back in his chair and gestures for Ingrid to continue. "I'd like to hear it all the same."
> 
> "I am not much of a storyteller," Ingrid says and lifts her eyes, "but I'll do my best." 
> 
> The knight is winded, sun-burnt, her knightly armor tattered, damaged and dirtied; her hair whips around her head like a halo... The words fight each other to come out first; she's all but breathless, like the air was snatched from her chest by the wind's fingers. 
> 
> She starts to tell the story once, twice...
> 
> And then, she finds the words.
> 
> There was only ever one way to tell the story.
> 
> "Once upon a time, there was a knight who climbed the beanstalk..."

"Ingrid Brandl Galatea," the man seated opposite her begins, "your family and fellows would have me believe that you successfully traveled to the World Above, and returned to us unharmed."

"Yes, General Holst," Ingrid replies after a moment's hesitation, "but it's not what anyone wants you to believe. That's the truth."

The man stares at her for a long moment, then sighs and scratches at a scar on his face as if remembering something unpleasant. "Forgive me if I find this challenging to accept. There hasn't been a single one of our soldiers who's crossed over on their own and lived to tell the tale. The beanstalk withers and they never return. So what makes you so special? And where did you even get the seeds to begin with? House Goneril keeps them under tight surveillance."

Ingrid turns her gaze away from his intense eye contact and stares at her hands placed upon the wood-grain surface of the table. "Well, Your Grace, I was desperate, so I'm afraid the story does not have an exciting beginning." 

Holst leans back in his chair and gestures for Ingrid to continue. "I'd like to hear it all the same."

"I am not much of a storyteller," Ingrid says and lifts her eyes, "but I'll do my best." 

The knight is winded, sun-burnt, her knightly armor tattered, damaged and dirtied; her hair whips around her head like a halo...  The words fight each other to come out first; she's all but breathless, like the air was snatched from her chest by the wind's fingers. 

She starts to tell the story once, twice...

And then, she finds the words.

There was only ever one way to tell the story.

"Once upon a time, there was a knight who climbed the beanstalk..."

* * *

...a knight of Galatea. Her name was Ingrid Brandl Galatea, and she loved her home dearly. She trained from a young age to serve as a knight, training with the arming sword and the spear, on pegasus-back and on foot, to defend her home from brigands and from great monsters.

Her home, the Kingdom of Faerghus, was a cold and infertile land. To grow its food, it depended on the blood of the great monsters, the skybeasts, that sometimes fell from the sky and shook the earth with their coming. Skyspawn attacks were deadly, but they were necessary as well. The fact that it had been well over eight months since the last attack meant that, though no knights had perished in combat, the crops would not grow and the people were hungry. The king did his best to provide for his people, but his land was vast and his options few.

So distraught was Ingrid (for she loved her home dearly) that she sought out any and all means of remedy. She searched high and she searched low; but even the wisemen of Galatea knew naught how to solve this problem, and Ingrid was but a young knight. So she could do nothing. This troubled her greatly. Doing something was always better than doing nothing.

One day, at the market, Ingrid happened to walk past a salesman. She did not know his name; if you asked her, afterward, she would not even be able to describe his face. His stall was simple and sparse, and he called out in a voice that creaked like an old oak in a storm:  "Care for some magic beans, miss?"

Ingrid turned her head at that. "Magic beans?" she asked, not unkindly, but with great confusion. "What do you mean? Why would I buy magic beans?"

The man behind the stall flashed Ingrid a crooked smile full of broken teeth and placed a small burlap sack onto the counter. 

"You're starving aren't you? Your family, your friends, the people who look up to you," he said with the sort of sinister certainty of someone who knew it was the truth. "This will solve all your woes. You've heard the legends of the World Above. Its secrets will make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams, and you'll be able to afford to save your fief. If it's not wealth that appeals to you, perhaps you'll be able to find enough food to save your people. Guaranteed to work."  He pushed the bag toward her, as if he knew she wouldn't refuse.  "I'll sell it to you for whatever money you have on your person. No more, no less."

Ingrid didn't hesitate. Why would she? She paid with all she had (to her, not much; to most, a lot) and said, "Thank you," feeling foolish, yet weirdly hopeful. She headed out into the woods, planted the beans, then watered them, expecting nothing.

Then there came a rumbling as the earth split beneath her, and before she could think she was lifted away from the ground. A great green beanstalk was growing, and Ingrid was on top of it! She hung on for dear life as it climbed higher and higher. The air became colder, the winds blew harder. She looked up and saw the great sea of clouds a moment before impact, and closed her eyes.

It was like being under cold water. It was heavy and soaking and chilled to the bone and terrifying beyond all belief, and Ingrid had to keep her mouth and her eyes shut tight - until, finally, the beanstalk stopped growing, and Ingrid, hands frozen shut, opened her eyes to see that she was in the middle of a cloud-borne garden.

She stared, dumbstruck and shivering, for a long moment, then hopped off the top off the beanstalk some ten feet down onto the very clouds themselves. Great plants grew around her from boat-sized containers of soil; she felt rather like a doll escaped into her mother's yard.

Ingrid wandered the cloudy paths. She was freezing and scared, stuck in the World Above, but this was just too strange. Fear looped back around into an odd kind of befuddled, awestruck calm. 

It made perfect sense in the moment that this giant cloud garden would lead to a giant porch, made from giant timbers, at the back of a giant house. Ingrid climbed up steps as high as her shoulders one by one, until she reached the door. 

And because she was polite, the good knight knocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter is named after a song, so keep an eye out for a Spotify list that goes with this fic at some point!


	3. The Other Side / Out on a Limb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Well,” Catherine says, and sits back down. “That could have gone much worse!”_
> 
> Catherine and Ingrid get to know each other. Felix visits his neighbors and isn't expecting what he finds.
> 
> Meanwhile, in the World Below...
> 
> _"Y'know. This is a horrible idea," Sylvain says mildly, making no move to stop._  
>  _"It is what I must do." Dimitri stalks the palace corridors toward the stables. "And should I find that anyone has laid a hand on her, they shall know only pain."_
> 
> King Dimitri and his knight Sylvain finally find a lead on where Ingrid might have gone.

_all I want is to feel like all I got didn’t cost me everything_

Even standing at the door, Ingrid smells something cooking: something meaty and rich with spices. Her stomach rumbles. When was the last time she's had a good, hearty meal?

A woman's voice, foghorn-loud, responds through the door, "Felix, if that's you, it's unlocked. C'mon in."

"Excuse me! I'm lost. Can you... help me?" What a tiny voice! It's almost hard to make out over other noises, but Catherine thinks she heard someone say... Something? Something about being lost?

She puts her chef's knife down and wipes her hands on her apron, then walks a few strides to the back door and opens it, looking around at giant height before looking.... Down. The woman is easily taller than most buildings Ingrid's ever seen, and it probably would be a lot scarier if she wasn't in an apron and house slippers. "What do we have here?"

To her credit, Ingrid doesn't reel back. She doesn't run. She doesn't pick up her spear - which she realizes in that tense moment: she left it on the surface - or yell about the giant woman in front of her. She goes completely still. "Um. My name is Ingrid," she says dumbly. She gestures to the beanstalk. "I planted a bean and now I'm here. Sorry about the um. The garden."

Catherine’s expression shifts to one of amused confusion. "Hello, Ingrid." Then, her attention flicks over to the garden - far less disrupted than Ingrid imagines. "Would you like to come in and tell me more about what, exactly, happened?" The least she can be is hospitable, she supposes.

"Yes. Thank you." Ingrid pauses for a moment to say, under her breath and with emphasis, "What the fuck. What the fuck. Giantladywhatthefuck--", and then she comes inside. The kitchen floor is as vast as a plain. Dust rolls across it; food residue the size of her foot lays scattered around like rocks. The chairs are taller than the biggest tree she's ever climbed, and Ingrid takes a seat at the foot of one of them, jogging across the distance.

Catherine walks back into her kitchen without considering the size difference between herself and her guest, but then pauses and turns around and walks back over to Ingrid. She offers a hand to stand on. "It'll be easier to talk this way. I won't hurt you, promise."

“...okay." Ingrid hops on. She tries not to scream as the giant’s hand lifts. It's mildly less terrifying than the beanstalk - and then she's let down onto the table. "I didn't know there were giants up Above," she says. "Nobody's seen your kind in centuries. I thought you had all died, or were just a myth."

"Dead? Really?" Catherine seems to find that amusing. "I have something of a reputation, but we aren't a myth. Interesting, though, most folks up here don't think humans exist either." She thinks for a moment. "Did you say you planted a bean and that's how you got here?"

"I bought a bag of beans from a guy at the market. He said they were magic." Ingrid rubs the back of her neck. "I uh, didn't believe him, but with our land so barren, I was desperate for anything to help feed my people." Saying it out loud hammers home how foolish this sounds.

Catherine picks the chef's knife back up and resumes cutting something huge and ringed. At first Ingrid imagined it to be some sort of giant tuber, like a carrot twice the size of a man, but upon closer consideration she realizes it’s a tree. A piece of which the giant picks up and crunches on thoughtfully. Her gaze sweeps back to Ingrid, suddenly sympathetic. "You came here to try to help find food for people?"

"...Indirectly, yes. Why?" Ingrid asks. 

"That," the giant grins, "I can help with. I'm Catherine by the way, I don't think I introduced myself. Rude of me, sorry." A beat. "Are you hungry right now?"

"Nice to meet you, Catherine. And," Ingrid says, "no, I'm good," on reflex, so as not to be rude; but then her stomach betrays her and rumbles, so loud even Catherine can hear it.

Catherine's sympathetic expression turns teasing. "Ah yes, I bet you're stuffed and couldn't eat another bite." She pulls a spoon from a drawer and removes the lid from the stew pot resting on her stove top. That rich meaty smell wafts through the air again as she takes the spoonful, blows on it a bit to cool it down and sets it down in front of Ingrid. The basin of the spoon itself is as big as any serving bowl Ingrid has ever seen. The giant thinks for a second, and then tears what she imagines to be a tiny section from a loaf of bread that stands as tall as a villager's house. "Here, that ought to make eating it easier."

"...thank you." Ingrid grabs a handful of the bread and dunks it in the soup. She pulls it up, blows on it, then takes a bite. It's savory, all but melting in her mouth. "What is this?" she asks the moment one mouthful's down. "It's delicious. I've never had anything like it!"

"It's stew," Catherine says off-handedly. "And bread, obviously. It's some bone broth, vegetables from the garden and market, and..." Catherine reaches over to check something noted on a sheet of butcher paper. "Haunch of a lesser category flying beast. Then black and white pepper, garlic, thyme, sage, and several bay leaves. Left to cook all morning. Why? Want a recipe?" Her eyes widen. "Those are all things you can eat, right?"

Ingrid smiles in genuine delight. "Yes. I do, in fact, like stew. I guess it's the meat that I'm not used to. You said it's from a flying beast?"

"Yeah. I find it a little gamey unless stewed and seasoned. My wife likes it raw, but," she chuckles, "she's not home right now, so it's stew time."

Wife? Ingrid pieces together the implications of this statement. A slow blush creeps across her face. "Your wife likes raw meat?"

"Almost exclusively!" Catherine says with an air of exasperation, as she reflects on a long-standing domestic argument. "I pan-broil steaks for her and she just says..." Her voice takes on a flat affect in imitation of her wife, "’Can't you serve it raw?’"

Ingrid giggles and takes another bite of soupy bread. "Is your wife a giant too?"

"No, she's an ogre." The giant pauses, then says, "That's the kind of creature she is. It’s not an insult."

"...so there's ogres, and giants, and skybeasts up here? What else?" Ingrid asks.

"I hear there's a family of dragons that lives in another arcology but I've never met them,” Catherine says with a shrug, “ and the skybeasts don't _live_ here..."

"Dragons," Ingrid repeats. "Okay."

"This town is mostly giants and ogres, though. Ogres are kind of small, comparatively." Catherine gestures at her chest to indicate their relative height.

Ingrid watches this, wondering what they must look like if this is the giant’s idea of small. "Is everything up here enormous? I have to ask."

Catherine looks down at her, confused by the question. "Everything is normal size? Is everything down there really small?"

"Well, if you ask me, everything down _there_ is normal size. It's here that's big!" Ingrid gestures around her to every massive thing on the kitchen table.

Catherine laughs. "Well then. Yes, to you, I suppose everything here is enormous."

"You're the biggest woman I've ever seen." There's a lot to unpack there and Ingrid will do so later.

At this statement, the giant tilts her head a little bit and turns a confused but entertained expression Ingrid’s way. Catherine isn’t sure what else the young woman was expecting, so she decides to laugh about it, instead. "And how many other giants have you met before?" From the cupboard, she retrieves a bowl for herself and ladles stew into it, clearly intent on having a meal with her small guest.

"None,” Ingrid answers. “Well, unless we count my friend Dimitri. But he's just a giant by comparison. He's not going to believe me when I tell him about this."

Catherine cuts herself a few slabs of bread and then takes a seat in one of the massive chairs to enjoy her own lunch. "Do you think anyone will believe you?"

"They might not. It is a rather far-fetched story," Ingrid admits. "But my word is good. The bigger challenge will be in returning to tell them in the first place."

"Climb back down the same plant you climbed to get up here?" Catherine shrugs one huge shoulder, then dunks her bread into the stew and takes a bite. "I'm not sure anyone would believe me about you, either."

"Long way down." The thoughts flick across Ingrid’s face for a moment, before she settles on a maybe. "And I guess you can show me to them? I would be more than happy to say hello to new people."

A rumbling sound of disapproval rolls from the giant’s throat. "That's not the best idea."

"Why not?” Ingrid asks. “Do they not like humans?"

"Yes, that's the short answer,” Catherine says. “Most of us don't think of you as people, or even know you exist. You're not my first human encounter, though, fortunately for you."

"Oh? You get a lot of visitors from below?"

"No," Catherine chuckles. "Not at all! Not here, anyway. I had a standing rivalry with a human particularly intent on killing me until we each realized the other could talk. He thought I was no different than the skybeasts and I thought he was some kind of killer pest."

"That sounds like a wild misunderstanding," Ingrid laughs. "How long did you go before you realized it?"

"A few repeat encounters, before I yelled at him to tell me what the fuck he wanted." The giant laughs too. Ingrid snorts loudly. "I'm afraid it isn't just that big a misunderstanding, but something the majority of people believe,” Catherine explains. “You didn't know we existed, right? You probably would have thought I was a monster if you met me under different circumstances."

"Yeah. But I would have said something!” Ingrid says. “Even if it was just a warning. It's just a little ridiculous to me that two beings capable of talking met multiple times without doing so."

Catherine shrugs again. "There was a lot of fighting and not a lot of conversation. But! Now you're here and we're talking, and you're safe with me."

"Well, that's good at least. Now I just need to figure out how to get down from here..." Ingrid looks over her shoulder past the expanse of the tabletop to the huge door in the distance. 

Catherine drums her fingers on the table in thought, unintentionally vibrating the entire surface under Ingrid. "My knowledge of this is very limited, but as far as I know it's usually coming back the way you came. The problem is that route can close."

The table bounces under Ingrid a little like it's an earthquake. "Am I going to have to climb down that thing?"

"I'd imagine so." Catherine takes another thoughtful bite of her stew. "We can figure out how to make that easier, I suppose. And I should load you up with supplies before you do. That is why you're here, right?"

“Not exactly,” Ingrid says, “but it'd be appreciated. Anything I can carry will help."

"If not supplies, then what?" Catherine makes a thoughtful face. "I'll have to find something you can hold..."

"Do you have any giant seeds?" She asks.

"Hm? I have a whole garden,” the giant gestures towards the door. “I could get you some seeds. Tomatoes? Cucumbers? Black beans? I can cut up that loaf of bread into little bits and send some with you too."

Ingrid’s eyes light up. "That would be wonderful!

Catherine’s face breaks into a big, warm smile "Of course. Did you get enough to eat? Was there any of the meat in that spoonful?"

Ingrid blushes. "There was. Your cooking is delicious Catherine. Thank you."

Catherine blushes herself, bashfully rubbing a hand on the back of her head. "Hey, thanks. I don't usually get to share my cooking with someone..."

The clicking sound of the door unlatching echoes through the foyer and then the door swings open. In walks Catherine’s neighbor, a young man with fierce catlike features. He’s only half as tall as the giant, though still enormous from Ingrid’s perspective. He walks inside without knocking or saying hello. "I left one of my daggers in your training room, I'm just going to go down and grab it--" But he stops and blinks upon noticing that Catherine isn’t speaking to her wife. And then looks… down. "What is _that_?"

"Excuse me! I have a name," Ingrid scoffs.

"It talks? Catherine, what did you do?" His statement sounds like an accusation.

"Felix!" Catherine jumps to her feet, obviously caught off-guard. She looks back down at Ingrid, who mouthed off to a creature several times her size, and seems impressed, if also concerned. "I didn't do anything! She wound up here." Ingrid has decided she already hates this mouthy catboy fuck.

Felix folds his arms and glares down at this...thing. Person. Whatever. "Is that...a human?"

"The human's name is Ingrid, thanks for asking, furball." A moment after she says it, Ingrid supposes that might be offensive. She opens her mouth to apologize on reflex, but pauses.

"Get your daggers and go home, Felix." Catherine says. 

His hackles are clearly up; his tail sticks straight out behind him with the fur puffed out. "I'm not going to just walk away and let some speck of a h--an Ingrid insult me."

Catherine puts the bulk of herself between Ingrid - who seems determined to get killed - and Felix, who won't let an insult lie. "What are you going to do, then?"

Ingrid bares her teeth in silent defiance. She's fought skybeasts before. She can handle a skycat too. Probably.

"I could step on her." Felix scowls. "What are you doing making her dinner, anyway? I thought you were supposed to report human sightings."

"I was making dinner for _myself_. You knew that from earlier. I just shared with her." Catherine narrows her eyes. "I'm not going to report someone lost and scared who’s not trying to kill me."

Ingrid is a trained slayer. She's used to eating cooked skybeast, feeling the strength spark and flow through her muscles, turning sinews to steel. Raising her body temperature hot enough to evaporate water, making her eyes glow bright. It's a feeling she hasn't had in a long time, but she suddenly feels it now. It feels like she could stomp and crack the mesa of the table; like she could go a few rounds with this Felix cat. She picks up the tarnished silver spoon, taller and heavier than she is - considerately, politely pours out the stew into the bowl - and slams it down butt first onto the wood like a spear.

"I don't want to fight," she says, on account of not wanting to be a bad guest and also not being a giant, "but I can if I have to. And I won't make it easy."

Catherine hears both the sound of the spoon slamming into the table behind her and Ingrid’s bold proclamation, then glances back over her shoulder. She also knows what an empowered beastslayer looks like. "Hey what the fuck--"

Felix peers down at Ingrid, lifting his eyebrows, slightly impressed. "Huh. Maybe you're not such a speck after all." He shrugs at Catherine, though, otherwise unperturbed. "I don't care if you report her or not. But if she insults me again, guest or not, I'll cut her to pieces."

Ingrid smiles in spite of herself, and lowers the spoon. "Then I guess we're fine."

"Hmph.” Felix grunts. “So. You're a fighter, are you? What kind?"

"I am a knight of House Galatea,” Ingrid proclaims, “trained in arms and horseback and pegasus riding, and in the slaying of skybeasts."

"Bold words," Felix says. "If you're capable of living up to them, you might be a worthy opponent someday."

Oh, no, there it is, she's pissed again. "I promise one day you'll find out."

His smirk isn't unfriendly. "I look forward to it. Sparring with a human should be interesting."

Catherine stares incredulously between them. "Were you really going to fight him with a soup spoon?!"

"Well, what was I supposed to use?” Ingrid asks. “I left my spear down Below!"

"Use what you've got,” Felix commends her with a nod. “It's a good instinct." Ingrid nods back, like they're not talking about her trying to maul a gigantic cat with a person-sized spoon.

Catherine glances at her chef's knife sitting idly on the cutting board not that far from Ingrid. She sighs. "You could have told me you were a beastslayer up front. Here I am treating you like a scared little lamb."

Ingrid blinks owlishly. "Well, you never asked. And you're clearly not a beast. So I didn't see a reason to mention it."

"I should have guessed when you didn't run at the sight of me, I suppose." The giant heaves another gusty sigh. "Felix, can we keep this between us?"

The ogre pauses for a second, like he's waiting for her to say something else, and then says, "Oh, sorry. Usually when someone says that to me, they follow it up with some kind of weird bribe."

"No, I'm... I'm just asking."

He shrugs. "Sure."

Catherine makes a relieved sound. "Great. Thanks. Now go get your daggers, unless you also want stew--but it has vegetables in it."

"It's a very good stew!" Ingrid adds.

"No thanks, I'm not in the mood to pick the meat out or spend the rest of the night nauseous." Felix gives Ingrid one last thoughtful look, then heads downstairs to fetch his weapons and back up to give Catherine a nod before he leaves.

“Well,” Catherine says and sits back down. “That could have gone much worse!” 

* * *

_floating softly, flying up - like there’s no more gravity_

King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd paces his throne room like a restless beast, waiting for Sylvain to return with word of whether or not anyone has found Ingrid yet, or any clue to where she might be. It isn't like her to disappear without a word, to fail to show up for her duties. But it's been two days now, and there's no sign of her...he worries. Ingrid's not reckless. Something must have happened. What if--

But he's spared that thought by the sound of the great double doors opening, and he turns with one slightly wide eye. "Sylvain. There you are. Tell me you've brought good news."

Sylvain walks into rooms like oil mixes with water. A cocky, easy, yeah-I-know-I'm-charming smile, an easy saunter. He's all charisma, goes down as smooth as possible. Usually there's at least a little (but not a lot) of light in those eyes, some warmth to the playfulness. But there's none of that today. There's none of that when Ingrid is on the line.

Sylvain's mane of orange hair is slicked back with sweat and with dust. His smile is crooked, like he put it on too fast and he doesn't care who can see it doesn't fit. He's panting a little; he ran here. "Okay, Your Majesty. I can tell you that. But you can't get mad at me for lying to you."

Dimitri's face crumples. Surely he's lost enough. Surely, this hellish world won't take one of the few loved ones he has left away from him, not now. "Did you find...anything at all?" His voice is little more than a low rumble shaped into words.

"Yeah. There's a gigantic beanstalk in the woods." Sylvain barks a dead, one-note laugh. "Knowing Ingrid, it wouldn't shock me if she climbed up the thing. She gives me shit for getting into trouble, but out of all of us, she's the one who'd do something like that."

"A...beanstalk?" Brief confusion flits across Dimitri’s face, then disbelief tinged with stern annoyance. "Come now, Sylvain, you cannot expect me to believe that."

"What, you think I'm joking? About this of all things?" Anger flickers across Sylvain’s. It's the first time Dimitri has seen him mad - genuinely, openly, honestly fucking mad - in a long time. "I'm not messing around. There is a gigantic beanstalk in the middle of the woods. The day she left, Ingrid was absolutely despondent about the famine. Would you really put it past her to climb up a beanstalk if she thought there was even the slightest chance she could find something at the top to help?"

Dimitri's single eye blinks, taking in Sylvain's anger with an almost blank expression, now. "If that is so...nothing that I have heard of the World Above, little as it is, convinces me that she will have met anything but a cruel fate there." He doesn't think any further than that, snatching up his lance from where it rests beside his throne and sweeping across the room toward the doors, his voluminous cape billowing behind him in his haste. "With me. We are going to find her. Immediately."

Sylvain only hesitates for a second, as he decides whether or not he's going to yell at Dimitri. Then he shakes his head with a grimace, before jogging to catch up. "Y'know. This is a horrible idea," he says mildly, making no move to stop.

"It is what I must do." Dimitri stalks the palace corridors toward the stables. "And should I find that anyone has laid a hand on her, they shall know only pain."

"Yeah, yeah. You know, for once I'm with you on that." Sylvain mounts his horse next to Dimitri. The Lance of Ruin is heavy on his back. It makes sounds like whispering.

Dimitri has no comment on the implications of Sylvain's words as he pulls himself up into Umbra's saddle, his massive warhorse stamping on the ground as though he, too, can sense the tension in the air. "Take me to this beanstalk."

"Yes, Your Majesty." When Sylvain says this with complete sincerity, he reflects on how fucked the situation must be to merit treating Dimitri with that kind of open respect.

* * *

It's not a long ride to Galatea, as the crow flies, and the woods aren't that far from the castle there. A dark forest of old pine boles, huddled close together on the floor of the valley and beneath the sheer cliff face on which the nobles live. It's an imposing, austere place.

And at the center of it rises an enormous beanstalk.

"I toldja.” Sylvain gestures at the massive plant. “Giant beanstalk."

The king atop his mighty warhorse is, himself, an imposing and austere sight, but all he can do for a moment is gaze up, and up, as far as the eye can see, into the clouds. "So the legends are true..." How strange, that something so wondrous should happen at such a dire time, robbing them of the awe they ought to feel. He dismounts and loops the reins around a tree, steadies Areadbhar on his back, and walks to the base of the enormous stalk. "You should climb ahead. If you fall, I will catch you."

Grimacing, Sylvain swings off of his horse, doing the same. He cranes his neck and looks up. He can't see the top; he doesn't even think he can see halfway to the top. Good thing he's not scared of heights. "I can't believe she would do something so stupid and reckless. Actually, no, I can completely believe it. And I'm going to throttle her once I get to the top of this thing and find her." He sighs, then begins the ascent.

"If she did climb this to find aid in Faerghus' time of need, then she has done more than her own king has to remedy the disaster our land has become." Grim, as Dimitri starts to climb after Sylvain.

"Ingrid has been going crazy looking for a way to help. She's a better person than either of us," Sylvain says wryly.

"...I have often wondered whether I truly deserve to call myself king. Now more than ever, I am convinced that I do not." Dimitri could, if he chose, haul himself up much faster than this; but he forces himself to keep pace with Sylvain. "I have done everything in my power, but it has not been nearly enough. And in some ways, it has been too much, throwing myself into battle just...just to feel that I am doing _something_. But all I have accomplished is to make my own people fear me."

"Sounds about right." Sylvain lets that drop like a boulder for a moment in which neither of them says anything. There's just the climbing and the misery and the fear. And then Sylvain opens his mouth again. "So do better. That's what Ingrid always says. It's never too late to become a better person. To do things right." He sounds a little choked up. "So here's to getting it right and following her lead, eh buddy?"

Something deep inside Dimitri's chest stirs, as if to remind him that his fate, his will, his _life_ is not his own. "As if it could be so easy." His words carry an edge of scorn. "When not only must I bear the burdens of the dead, but their agony and misery are etched into my body and soul...I am a beast, Sylvain. You know this."

Sylvain stops for a second to catch his breath, glaring over at Dimitri. "Nobody ever said it's easy, Your Majesty. What, do you want pity? Want me to agree with you? Okay, sure," he says nastily, "you're a violent beast haunted by the dead. Congratulations. You think that's special?"

A low growl rumbles through Dimitri's chest. He stops as well, gripping the stalk's thick branches tightly enough to snap them as he glares up at Sylvain with an eye that almost seems to glow and to burn; but he doesn't fall, plunging long, sharp claws he didn’t have a moment ago into the stalk's trunk. Red bleeds into his vision at the very edges, and although his form is more or less still human, Sylvain's provocation has roused the beginnings of a rage he knows he won't be able to easily quell once it truly starts. 

"...if you are looking for a swift death, Sylvain," the king snarls, gritting his teeth, "I would ask that you look elsewhere. Move out of my way." 

And with that, he stops holding back, forgoing the branches in favor of simply bounding up the stalk itself, claws marking his path. Equal parts terror and anger churn in Sylvain's chest. He swings out of the way as fast as he can, barely getting out of Dimitri's path in time. Shreds of green shower him; his friend (the prick) is already fast receding out of sight. "Damn you, Dimitri. You never make it easy, do you?" Sighing, muscles burning, Sylvain picks up his own pace.

Dimitri lets the _boar_ fuel his ascent, well into the stalk's upper reaches before he slows, and then stops. He curls one arm--sans claws, now--around a branch and leans his head against the stalk's cool flesh, wind whipping his hair into his face as he catches his breath. 

"Curse you, Sylvain," he mutters, pausing there for a few minutes before resuming his climb, at a much more...human pace.

* * *

Sylvain has completely lost track of the passage of hours by the time he makes it to the top of the beanstalk. He nearly didn't; there were more than a few close calls, from gusts of wind to his fingers freezing stiff, to exhaustion and fear pulling him down, down, down like leaden weights. But through a mix of sheer spite, grit, and fear for Ingrid, he finally hauls himself up above the clouds, sees a solid-looking surface beneath him, and leaps onto it. He lands hard, bruising his shoulder, and rolls clumsily. For a moment the world spins. Then it slows, and he realizes he is, in fact, on top of the clouds. "Your Majesty?" he calls.

Despite slowing down significantly, Dimitri still reaches the top of the beanstalk well before Sylvain does, and he takes that time to rest and get his bearings, to reflect, and finally, to take a look at this new world in which he finds himself. He's shocked to find that everything is...enormous. Massive. Gigantic. None of those words seem adequate. By the time he hears Sylvain calling him, he's wandered out beyond what he assumes to be a garden only to find houses so gargantuan it's almost difficult to recognize them _as_ houses.

Dimitri returns to where the beanstalk emerges and reaches out a hand to help steady his knight. "Sylvain! Look...is it not wondrous?" He appears to have either forgotten his earlier anger or shoved it aside in favor of awe at what they've discovered.

"Yeah. I guess it is," Sylvain wheezes. He's still mad at Dimitri, but it's subsumed by amazement at the world around them. The sky above is dark blue fading to black; the clouds are like fields, and the house before them as a great hill. "It looks like we're in some kind of garden," he mutters. "You think anyone's home?"

"I have been observing the house for some time, but I have neither seen nor heard any signs of anyone within. But--" Dimitri turns Sylvain in place by the shoulders--gently, carefully-- "Not far in that direction, there is another, and there I have seen great candle flames the size of bonfires flickering at the windows. Shall we ask after Ingrid there?"

"Sure. Gotta start somewhere, right? Ingrid's dumb, but I'm not sure she'd just knock on the literal first door she sees." He shrugs. "Let's go."

Dimitri nods and starts walking that way. After a moment, "...Sylvain, I must apologize for my boorish behavior, earlier. I lashed out at you, when you were simply trying to show me a brighter perspective. I am sorry, my friend."

Sylvain seems genuinely surprised, like Dimitri slapped him in the face. For another moment, they walk in silence, until Sylvain says: "Eh. Don't worry about it. I know you get melodramatic, I was just being a dick about it. 'pology accepted, buddy."

"Melodramatic..." Dimitri huffs, a slight chuckle. "Yes, I...suppose that I can be. It is certainly no excuse for the way I acted, but...I have found myself on edge more often than not these days. Ingrid's disappearance was, ah...the last straw, as it were."

"I can relate, honestly. She's always there, and always so steady, that when she vanished, well..." Sylvain rubs the back of his neck. "Y'know."

"I do." Dimitri doesn't get as much of a chance to see his friends as he used to, having to shoulder the burden of his royal duties, but knowing they're there helps when he feels overwhelmed. Ingrid, stalwart and true, has always been there for them both, one of the few who can coax Dimitri back when he loses himself in his rage. Were they to lose her...he doesn't want to think about what might happen. What he might do. And then, what they would do without her.

Sylvain's hand hits his shoulder hard (but not too hard). He offers a shit-eating, sleazy smile for his friend. Sincere, but not _too_ sincere. "We're gonna get her back," he says airily, but without any humor. "I promise."

Dimitri reaches up to pat Sylvain's hand, and manages to conjure a small smile in return. "Yes, of course. Thank you for accompanying me here."

"You're welcome, Your Majesty." His tone is only a little mocking. "Now c'mon. Let's go say 'hey' to the natives."

“Yes, indeed,” Dimitri agrees.

Soon they're on the final approach, enormous candles lighting their way from the windows just as Dimitri saw before. By the time they reach the door, he has composed himself completely - chin lifted, posture straight, looking every inch the king. Ordinarily, the sight is enough to intimidate even the haughtiest nobles and most jaded soldiers, but if the people here are anywhere close to the size of everything else, he imagines it won't do much to impress. Still, he must comport himself in a manner befitting his station, and the polite, regal countenance he perfected so long ago serves him well.

"Would you like to do the honors?" he asks Sylvain, gesturing toward the door.

"Nope." Sylvain takes a deep breath, gathers his nerve, and then knock-knocks on the door the size of a keep's wall anyway.


	4. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Save attacking the head for a downed opponent. Not a standing one." Catherine puts Ingrid on her shoulder. "Want to see the guest room?"
> 
> "Yes please," Ingrid says. She tosses the spoon onto the table. She's gonna remember that one.
> 
> Catherine holds her bruised palm up. "You did get me, for what it's worth," she says before ambling back into the rest of the house. "That's our room, in there." She points in through a half-opened door to a glimpse of an unmade bed bigger than any structure Ingrid has ever seen before. "And here's the spare room."
> 
> Catherine winces as she turns the handle, using her hurt hand without thinking. There's a pile of laundry on the guest bed, which is smaller than the one in the other room but impossibly huge by human standards. "Guess I don't need to move those clothes, huh. Hah!"
> 
> The front door clicks open with barely a sound. Only the softest rustle of cloth and movement hints that anyone is present in the other room at all. Catherine’s whole body stiffens under Ingrid's feet when she hears the door open and shut with no other noise. "...that’s my wife." She curses under her breath. "No time for pleasantries." Catherine unceremoniously drops Ingrid into the pillows.

_ take out the stories they’ve put into your mind, and brace for the glory as you stare into the sky _

Once the door is shut and Felix is gone, Catherine turns back to Ingrid, her previously pleasant face turning intensely sober. "Where did all that power come from? How did you channel it?"

“Huh? Well, usually it's from eating skybeasts. That's what happens when humans eat them," Ingrid explains. 

Catherine stares in disbelief. "What."

"...did you not know?” Ingrid gasps.

"No!" Catherine runs her hand through her hair. 

“How did you think we kill them?"

"I had no idea. I didn't even know you _could_ kill them."

"Well, we do. My whole family are slayers. I've trained to do it since I could walk." Ingrid cracks a smile momentarily. "It usually takes a team though, it's really hard. Slayers are feared down Below. We...change as we partake more and more."

That sounds frightening, and serious. Catherine hesitates a moment. "So, I... Shouldn't? Cook for you?"

"No!" Ingrid cries. "I mean yes! I love your cooking! I mean--"

Catherine grimaces. "I don't want something bad to happen to you because of it."

"It's not that something bad will happen. We just change. We get weirder. A little less human. But that's okay!" Ingrid's smile stretches and reveals all the little things that are off. Her teeth are a little too white. Her eyes are a little too green. Her skin glows faintly, and it's not just the energy Catherine's food instilled in her. "It's going to happen no matter what. I'm okay with that. Really. I'd rather it happen now, eating food made with love than eating more salted skybeast jerky."

Though Ingrid has made the state of her transformation apparent, Catherine can't make out those details; they're too small, and the distance between her eyes and Ingrid’s face is too great. She runs her hand through her hair again. "There's skybeast bone meal in the bread too..." A sigh. "Very well, then. I want to see what you're capable of, but first, you can't pick that same kind of fight with my wife. Also, it might be best if you stay hidden until I get a chance to tell her."

"I promise not to pick a fight with your wife," Ingrid says solemnly. "I don't like hiding, but if you want me to, I will. Not in a cupboard though."

"Why would I put you in a cupboard?" Catherine laughs at the thought. "I have a guest room. There's a bed you could get lost in."

"Oh. Okay. Thank you." Outwardly, Ingrid maintains a calm, relieved, and grateful expression. Internally, she panics at the idea of spending the night.

"So what can you do? Obviously lift heavy things - for your size. Which changes how much I imagine I can send home with you..." Catherine grins. "Can you leap from the table to my shoulder, or vault off my arm? If I tried to take that spoon from you, could you stop me?"

Ingrid grins right back. "Wanna find out?"

The excitement is evident in Catherine's huge blue eyes. "I do!"

Ingrid gives that spoon a twirl and sinks low into a stance. "Try me."

Catherine casually reaches for it, moving at a normal rate of speed before snapping her fingers toward the head of the spoon. Ingrid and the spoon are there. And then they're not. They're a good ten feet away to the left - Catherine didn't even see her move. Ingrid smirks. A corona of white light glows around her and her cutlery weapon, faintly coruscating arcs licking up the metal. She's vibrating, a static buzz in the world. Ball lightning with legs.  "I thought I said try me."

Catherine makes a humming sound of approval and a smile slides across her face. "Very well, then."  She slams her fist onto the table (not hard enough to crack it, even though she could - it's still her nice dining room table). The slam rocks the table, making it buck like an earthquake. Ingrid leaps straight up to avoid it, but it still slaps the bottom of her boots, throwing her off. Catherine’s other hand shoots forward at an alarmingly fast rate of speed, taking advantage of that instability.

Ingrid hangs in the air for a heartbeat, and it's like she's in the vast open sky again. The hand blurs toward her, taking up her whole world. She grits her teeth and does the only thing she can. By reflex, she twists her whole body and swings the glowing spoon so hard it warps the metal to intercept Catherine's hand.  The blast bats Catherine's hand away like she stuck it into a storm. Cold pain rattles up Ingrid's arm and shakes her teeth. She lands on her feet, stumbles, then plants the spoon to brace herself.

Catherine winces and shakes out her hand, a huge, bluish bruise spreading on her palm. "Your weapon is damaged, little one. What now?" Her unhurt hand sweeps forward again in a fast plucking motion meant to scoop up the tiny creature.

"A weapon need only last the fight!" Ingrid takes a breath and goes low, sliding under Catherine's hand like a lightning bolt. She pops back up between her arms, hits the ground running, and vaults using the spoon, bringing it down right toward the giant's face. Catherine puts the wounded hand between Ingrid's falling strike and getting spoon-whacked on the nose. Her immense fingers close and lock around Ingrid in the same instant.

"You're dead," she says. "But good technique."

It takes Ingrid a second to realize what, exactly, happened. She got close to winning only to realize it wasn't an inch to the finish line, it was a mile. She was never going to get there in the first place. Not in her current state. Shock, then disbelief, then anger, then finally rueful acceptance cycle across Ingrid's face.  "...you too," she says with a smile.

"I've either caught you and ripped you apart or bitten you in half. Save attacking the head for a downed opponent. Not a standing one." She puts Ingrid on her shoulder. "Want to see the guest room?"

"Yes please," Ingrid says. She tosses the spoon onto the table. She's gonna remember that one.

Catherine holds her bruised palm up. "You did get me, for what it's worth," she says before ambling back into the rest of the house.  "That's our room, in there." She points in through a half-opened door to a glimpse of an unmade bed bigger than any structure Ingrid has ever seen before. "And here's the spare room."  Catherine winces as she turns the handle, using her hurt hand without thinking. There's a pile of laundry on the guest bed, which is smaller than the one in the other room but impossibly huge by human standards. "Guess I don't need to move those clothes, huh. Hah!"

The front door clicks open with barely a sound. Only the softest rustle of cloth and movement hint that anyone is present in the other room at all. Catherine’s whole body stiffens under Ingrid's feet when she hears it. "...that’s my wife." She curses under her breath. "No time for pleasantries." Catherine unceremoniously drops Ingrid into the pillows.

Shamir shuts and locks the door behind her before half-perching on the arm of the couch to unlace her boots. She doesn't bother to say anything--she can smell that there's stew and it's still steaming, so Catherine's home, and she'll come out when she comes out. Which is more or less immediately, as Catherine pokes her head out of the guest room and calls, "Hey, you," down the hallway.

Shamir doesn't bother glancing up, pulling off one boot and starting on the other. "Hey, you. Stew night, I see."

"Wasn't sure when you'd get home, and I had veggies to use up before they went bad." Catherine glances back at Ingrid, hoping she's trying to conceal herself and not just standing dumbfounded on the pillowcase. Her hopes are dashed. She silently groans before calling, "You want something to eat?"

"I could eat." Shamir pulls off the second boot, drops it with the first, then shifts to stretch out, languid, across the couch cushions. She sniffs at the couch and the air for a moment. "Felix was here?"

"Yeah." Catherine gestures to Ingrid to hurry up and hide, before stepping out of the room and leaving the door cracked behind her. "He missed you and was lonely. Kept coming over." She walks over to Shamir and kisses her head. "I missed you too."

Shamir huffs a brief chuckle. "Poor kid. You'd think with three...excitable roommates, he wouldn't want for company." She reaches up to grab Catherine's wrist as the giant finishes her kiss, pulling to coax her down onto the couch with her. "Missed you."

Catherine more than obliges her desire for couch cuddles, lowering herself onto the cushions with only a little bit of protest from the frame. "I thought you wanted to eat, huh?"

"Maybe I'll just eat you, instead." Shamir bares her pointed teeth in a grin, climbing into Catherine's lap.

Catherine belts out a full bodied laugh and wraps her arms around Shamir, holding her tight. "Try me."

The ogre tucks her head under Catherine's chin and nuzzles the soft skin of her neck, purring faintly as she presses a few kisses there, and a few nips. Just as her tongue flicks out toward Catherine's ear, she pauses, sniffing. And then sniffing again, more insistently, at Catherine's shoulder. "...someone else was here, too."

"Hm? Just me and Felix."

Shamir's body tenses and she sits back to look Catherine in the eye, a slight frown creasing her brow. "No. Someone else touched your shoulder, not long ago. Someone unfamiliar."

_... _ _Oh._ It did't occur to Catherine that her wife could _smell_ humans.  "There's, okay, I need to tell you something but you're not allowed to freak out!"

Shamir doesn't move except to arch one eyebrow. "I'll freak out if I want to." The slightest curve of her lips tug into a tiny smirk. "Tell me."

Catherine rolls her eyes. "The strangest thing happened to me this evening. A human appeared on our stoop and literally knocked on the door."

The second eyebrow joins the first. "A human? So they are real, huh. Polite of them." She waits for further explanation - there must be more.

Catherine puts her hands up disarmingly; the palm of one is bruised, if healing. "She's still here. I didn't report it."

"Hm. Why?"

"Because she was lost and scared, not a pest or an enemy,” Catherine answers. 

Shamir takes the bruised hand in both of her own, looking it over; the slight frown is back. "And what ha--" At the sound of minute rustling from the hall, her ears twitch in that direction and her head turns to follow. The smell from Catherine’s shoulder drifts to her nose. Her hands twitch against Catherine's palm, as she holds back the instinct to hide and arm herself. "The human. In the back?"

Silent as a church mouse, Ingrid swears.

“That's just...a sparring injury." Catherine glances back in the direction of the guest room. "And yeah. Yeah, the human’s in the spare room."

Shamir turns back to study Catherine's face. "...soft." It isn't chiding, just stating a fact. "But if she poses no threat and no one else knows, I suppose there's no harm. As long as you don't plan to adopt her," she says, completely straight-faced.

Catherine chuckles. "I was planning to at least let her stay the night. We're trying to figure out how to get her home, honestly. I don't know what we'd do with a stranded human. Heh, at least she doesn't eat much, right?"

”Small blessings.” Shamir's expression remains stoic. Is that an intentional joke? “She can’t go back the way she came?”

"I...don't know,” Catherine says, a bit helplessly. “I suggested the same, but she seemed apprehensive about it. Said she came here via beanstalk and it sprouted in my garden."

"See if it's still there. If it is, I don't see why she can't climb down."

"We can certainly figure that out in the morning, can't we?” Catherine says. “She said she wound up here out of desperation to help her people, so let's give her a chance to rest up, huh? Tomorrow I can make a little satchel of seeds and bread and one of my tomatoes, or something."

"Hm. How big is she? Humans are small, I've heard." Shamir holds up two hands about five feet apart.

"A little smaller than my hand? I think she could probably lay down from my palm heel to my second finger joint." Catherine holds out her unhurt hand as a visual aid.

"One of your tomatoes could probably feed her and her entire family for a week." Shamir's expression quirks with faint amusement.

"You're probably right. And my tomatoes aren’t even that big! Though maybe they'd get tired of tomato after eating it for a week. I'm not sure how to send along stew..."

Shamir shifts in her lap. "What are you waiting for? Do I get to meet her or not?"

Catherine laughs. "Well, there's a beautiful ogress in my lap right now... That's making it complicated to get up."

"Is that so. That sounds like a 'you' problem." Shamir smirks.

"Well, come on." Catherine stands up with Shamir still clinging to her. She walks back to the guest room as though her wife weighs next to nothing.

Soon, Ingrid can see that the woman holding onto Catherine is another one of the lean, catlike creatures. She’s all pale skin and dark fur next to Catherine’s warm tan and golden hair. It’s at this point that Ingrid pops out of her hiding spot between pillows and tumbles onto the duvet. Ingrid blanches at the literal tower of lesbian above her like she's seen the face of the Goddess.  "Hello!" she calls, voice carrying thinly over the distance.

Shamir clings as though this is a perfectly normal thing to do with one's wife, without a hint of self-consciousness, and looks down at the tiny person with sharp, evaluative eyes. "You must be Ingrid."

The young knight stares up, a little wary. Her eyes are hard, but not unkind; her smile is honest. "I am. Thank you for welcoming me into your home."

Catherine gestures to the person holding onto her. "This is my wife, Shamir."

Ingrid bows. "A pleasure to meet you, Shamir."

Shamir nods. "Hm. Likewise."

Catherine smiles, pleased that their meeting hasn't been a disaster. "I'm going to make some food for Shamir. You can join us if you want to, and maybe we can make a plan to help you. Do you want to take that armor off? Wash your clothes?"

Now that she mentions it, Ingrid could really use a bath. "Yes please," she says. "Though I'm already really full myself."

Catherine laughs. "You don't have to eat anything else, I was offering you company." She pats her wife on the butt. "Hop down and go pick out a cut of meat I can dress up for you. Let me help make our guest more comfortable."

Shamir’s tail swishes slowly back and forth for a moment as she continues to size Ingrid up, and then she hops down with a grace that makes it seem like she was never clinging to her giant wife at all, but standing there serenely this whole time. She disappears into the kitchen.

"I don't think I can help you get your armor off," Catherine says. "The buckles look too small for me to handle. I assume you don't want me to destroy it." She chuckles.

Ingrid watches Shamir go, feeling physically relieved. The predator had her paralyzed in her sights and now she can move again. She lets out a sigh, then turns to Catherine --then she processes what was said and turns a faint pink. "Uhhhhhno that's--that is okay. I mean--I'm okay. I can take it off myself." Feeling more than a little self-conscious, Ingrid starts to remove it.

"Do you want to wash up?” Catherine asks. “I think... we can make you something to wear while your clothes dry from some spare scrap fabric..."

"Yes please!" Ingrid squeaks.

Catherine offers her hand for Ingrid again, who hops ten feet straight up into it. This provokes a sudden, delighted laugh from the giant. She walks to the bathroom and looks down at the tub, an especially nice, oversized thing meant for being comfortable as a human-building-sized person. "I don't suppose you want to swim?"

Ingrid stares down and thinks about the turbulent waters of this indoor ocean, where she could drown before her corpse hit the bottom. Then she smiles and says, "Of course I do!"

Catherine chips a bit of soap from a bar and hands it to her, then leaves a giant-sized towel folded up beside the tub. She lets the tub fill up to what she guesses is a safe amount of water and makes sure the drain is firmly plugged. "Enjoy your uh, swim? Yell for me whenever you're done."

Ingrid cackles like a goblin, shucks her armor and clothes (save her underclothing) with alarming speed, then cannonballs into the bath.

* * *

Catherine returns to the kitchen to find whatever meat Shamir has picked out and goes to the cupboard for spices. "How much of a fool do you think I am for doing this?"

By the time Catherine comes into the kitchen, Shamir is sitting perched on a countertop next to a wrapped slab of fish with her legs crossed, thinking. She looks up. "On a scale from one to ten, I'd say you're at about a seven." She smirks fondly. "But the foolish action isn't always the wrong one. I'm not really the one to ask that question."

Catherine inspects the cut of fish and makes a satisfied noise, then sets about cutting it into small pieces and seasoning it with salt, pepper, oil, and a few squeezes of citrus. She tosses it and arranges it artfully on a plate for Shamir as she thinks. Finally she says, "I don't intend to report this after she leaves, either." She refills her own stew bowl and sits down next to her wife. "In fact, if I could help more people like her, I would."

" _Are_ there more people like her?" It's an honest question. "I've never heard of a human managing to find their way up here unless it's to steal something or threaten someone."

Catherine shrugs. "I hope so. She said she was desperate for food." She sticks a big spoonful in her mouth. "What if they all are?"

"Hm.” Shamir frowns. “And you don't think she's lying or taking advantage of your kindness?"

"Do you think someone manages to break through the cloud sea just to run a scam?" Catherine fixes her with a look that's half asking the question seriously and half incredulity. "And let's suppose she is. What will I have lost? One tomato?"

Shamir shrugs, unperturbed. "Maybe. Hard to say. If she has access to more beans, maybe this is a trial run. Or a bid to soften you up." She isn't arguing for this point of view, just considering all the options.

"Oh no, then I'll be out a half dozen tomatoes." Catherine rolls her eyes.

Shamir snorts a laugh. "Or you'll find an army of beastslaying humans in your garden looking for a fight. I'm not saying it's likely. Just that it's possible."

"What would they have to gain by that?” Catherine asks. “If they picked a fight or tried to kill me, it would cut them off from their easy source of huge tomatoes. And would piss you off, and that's _extra_ stupid."

"I can't disagree." Shamir pops a mouthful of fish into her mouth and waits to speak again until she's swallowed it. "But there's more than tomatoes here. Your beans, for starters. One beanstalk might not be much of a threat, but a dozen?" She shrugs. "And there are more sensitive places to go than our house. Places with things some people wouldn't want humans to get their hands on. Places with important people to assassinate. We can't assume that because they're small, they're not dangerous."

"Hm, I hate to admit it, but you're right." Catherine frowns and gets up for more stew. "What do you suppose I ought to do about it?"

"If it were possible, I'd follow her down and observe her for a while. See what she does. But that's hard to do when I'm ten times their size. So..." Shamir eats another mouthful of fish. "Probably nothing. For now."

"How's the fish?" Catherine sighs and props her chin in the palm of the hand not holding her spoon. "I don't think she's lying, though."

"Delicious." The ogre takes another bite to prove it. "I'll have to observe her some more, but based on first impressions, I don't either."

Catherine smiles a little. She knows this is Shamir's way of being protective. "Don't scare her too badly, okay?" She chuckles. "Want to try some of this stewed meat?"

"No promises," Shamir says, but there's amusement in her eyes. "And no thanks. It gets...chewy when you cook it like that."

"Chewy?? This is tender and cooked to perfection! Falling off the bone! Melts in your mouth!" Catherine throws up her hands in mock frustration but can't keep the smile off her face. "Ogres!"

"More chewy, then." Shamir's lips curve slightly to go with that teasing look in her eye.

Catherine huffs. "At least the human likes my stew."

"Now you really are going to adopt her, aren't you."

Catherine laughs, but doesn't say no. "She wants to go home. I can't just keep her." 

A faint lift of Shamir’s eyebrows. "Is this going to be a repeat of the time you said the same thing about that golden retriever? The one that 'temporarily' stayed with us for four months?"

"You liked that dog too!” Catherine cries. “That's not important, the dog didn't have a whole world Below that needed it. Assuming that's true. And I think it is."

"The dog and I had an understanding," Shamir says, a completely straight-faced correction.

"An understanding that both of you wanted to sleep on top of me on a hot night." Catherine grumps.

"You say that like you didn't like it."

"I didn't love waking up drenched in sweat and overheating, no!" Catherine laughs. "I guess if she wants to sleep on me it'll be less hot."

"Dangerous,” Shamir says. “What if you roll over and crush her?"

Catherine frowns. "You know I'm not one to toss and turn."

"I suppose you could put a little pillow for her right...here." She reaches across the table to tap Catherine's cleavage.

For reasons she hasn't unpacked yet, that makes her blush. "What are you implying, huh?"

Shamir arches an eyebrow. "That you have a chest that's soft and warm, and makes a very convenient pillow. I should know."

"All of a sudden she's willing to share her prime real estate?" Catherine teases.

"Maybe. If she can beat me in a fight, I might consider her worthy." Shamir smirks.

Catherine looks down at her bruised palm. "She's no slouch, that's for sure."

Shamir takes a closer look at the bruise this time, taking Catherine's hand and pulling it closer to inspect it. The bruise is a clean circle, already healing at the edges. "She did this? I assumed the sparring was with Felix."

"Heh. Yeah. With a spoon!"

Shamir glances up with just her eyes, a clear '...spoon?' question in them, but she doesn't ask. "I'm certainly impressed. How did she manage that against you?"

"We were doing a little sparring and I tried to grab her, she defended with some kind of empowered strike. Hurt like hell." Catherine grins, obviously proud. 

"Empowered." Shamir frowns. "She's a beastslayer?"

"Yeah," she says in her usual, very casual way, "I..." Then it occurs to her that everything she's just said lines up neatly with the idea that maybe this  _ is _ just an infiltration and maybe her skills  _ were  _ being tested and she gave giant-slaying advice to a beastslayer, which now feels very stupid. "Ah, fuck."

There's no reproach in the serious look Shamir gives her wife, only concern. "Maybe she should stay for a while, after all."

"What do you mean?" Catherine asks.

"If she's a beastslayer, I doubt her presence here is a coincidence. We need more time to determine her true motives before we let her go." Shamir lets go of Catherine's hand and stands. She doesn't pace - she never paces, or fidgets - but she puts a hand on her hip and gazes out the window for a moment in thought. "Tell her it's dangerous for her to leave so soon. A patrol is coming through, maybe. She'll have to lay low for a day or two until it passes. Then..." Her gaze flicks back to Catherine. "If she's telling the truth, give her a bean and let her go. If she isn't..." She shrugs, not having to put the rest into words.

"Mm. I see." Catherine finishes the last few bites of stew and lets the spoon clatter in the empty bowl. "Who will do the deed, then? You or me?"

"I'll handle it." Shamir reaches down to her plate and pops the last piece of fish into her mouth.

Catherine’s expression sobers and the impressive muscle of her jaw twitches a moment. "I'm sure you will." A beat of silence passes. "I should go check on her."

Shamir nods. "Shout if you need me. I'm going to take my own bath when she's done." With that, she licks fish grease from the tips of her fingers and moves into the bedroom, silent as a cat.


End file.
